


Cherry Pie

by Garrae



Category: Castle
Genre: Dates, F/M, Firemen, Food Porn, Humour, Romance, disastrous dates, expensive restaurants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>' "I like brunettes," Castle murmurs, insinuatingly. "I like writers," Beckett purrs.' <br/>An alternative story as to what happened during, and after, the dinner scene in 2.14, The Third Man. <br/>Three shot, sheer fluff. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Appetiser

“Drago’s is really nice, isn’t it,” Beckett says to Brad Dekker.

Lanie was right. He’s really, really cute.  Sure, he’s not exactly going to make the final of _Are you smarter than a Fifth Grader_ , but brains weren’t what she was looking for tonight.  Brains, in fact, are a big disadvantage.  Castle has brains, but all he uses them for is annoying her.  Like now.  Currently he’s on the other side of the room employing those brains in chatting up some blonde bimbette called Amanda who’s wearing a little black dress that cost a fortune and clearly intends to have a very intimate night.  (How is he here anyway?  He’s got his choice of expensive eateries.  She doesn’t.)

“Yeah. I’ve never eaten anywhere like this before.  Say, you think they do cheesesteaks?”  Beckett doesn’t, but she laughs at what seems like a pretty good joke.  “No, really.  I love a good cheesesteak.”

Part way into their appetisers, Beckett’s decided that Brad doesn’t really seem to have much in the way of smarts. But he’s very, very nice to look at, and those biceps are really quite ridiculously attractive, and how could anyone not like a man who rescues puppies?  She tries a few current affairs topics, to no avail.  She tries movies, but he’s too busy saving puppies, he implies.  She tries books, without much hope, and is not disappointed when he suggests he doesn’t really read.  A brief thought flits through her mind: that Castle reads.  He reads everything, and can talk about it intelligently.  And he has travelled, and watches movies, and pays attention to current affairs – Castle, that is.  Brad – doesn’t.

“I like crime stories,” she says hopefully.

“Really? I think they’re a bit difficult to follow.”  Another conversation bites the dust.  Beckett is seriously beginning to wonder if she is capable of finding a single subject to talk about that will give her the smallest scintilla of hope of progressing this evening past dessert.  She’d wanted a nice, muscular man who could make her feel attractive.  She hadn’t expected that there would be no brain at all.

“What do you do in your spare time?”

“Work out, meet the guys, have a couple of beers.”

Beckett begins to understand why Brad needed a date arranged for him. Not like Castle, who merely had to call up Bachelorette Bimbette Number Three and probably had ten others available from his little black book.  He looks as if he’s having a really good time.  Not that she’s looking.  Cop instincts.  She’s casing the joint. 

“Do you do this often?” Okay, now she’s being a little malicious.  But based on the conversation – or lack thereof – so far, Brad won’t notice, and she might as well have a little fun.  If he’s really as dumb as he seems, scorching body or not he isn’t going to know how to use it.  But she’s not going to look like the date is a complete washout when Castle’s just across the room having a wonderful time with the airhead from page six.  Bachelorette Number Three?  If he’s managing to have a good time, though, she can’t be as much of an airhead as Beckett was hoping.

“Do what?”

“Go out on dates.”

Brad acquires an expression of masculine pride. “Sure.  Every Friday night, regular.”  Beckett starts to get a sinking feeling.  She definitely needs to rethink this evening.  That many dates with no continuity is a flapping red flag.

“What do you like?”

He looks at her, slowly. Beckett takes a bite of her meal, and waits expectantly.

“Well,” he says slowly, “y’know, I like most women” – Beckett reckons most women like him, but she’s rapidly becoming _not_ one of them – “but, y’know, you’re really pretty, but you’re not really my type.  I’m not into reading, or movies, and all that brainiac stuff you said.  And, well, y’know… I’m not really into brunettes.”

 _What? Gentlemen prefer blondes_?  This bozo is no gentleman.  And since when was going to the movies or reading the definition of a _brainiac_?  It’s just as well she hasn’t mentioned Stanford.  Or Stuyvesant. 

“You don’t like brunettes?” No-one likes brunettes this week.  Bimbette’s a bottle blonde, though.

He looks mildly embarrassed. Not nearly as embarrassed as he should.  Beckett wonders if he’d be more embarrassed if she tipped her wine over him.  It’s tempting.

“You’re pretty and all, but I don’t really go for brunettes. I go for blondes.” 

 _What the actual fuck_?  She hasn’t been judged on her hair colour since fourth grade.  Even when she dip-dyed it scarlet at college no-one’s ever found her wanting because of her hair.  Is this guy for real?  Well, that’s just killed the evening.  She takes another bite of dinner.  At least that’s worth the extortionate price, though not the embarrassment.  And there isn’t very much of it.  She’s seen more flesh on a catwalk supermodel strutting for the Anorexia-Is-Us finale.

“Girls who like to have a good time. Er – you’re a bit serious.”  He’s dead.  This date is as dead as her murder victim.  And so will Lanie be, because she’d implied that this guy had _advantages_.  Well, he doesn’t.

Her mind drifts to her case, not that Brad seems to notice. Suddenly she has a thought.  “I'm sorry, would you mind if I made a telephone call?”  He isn’t bothered about that either.  Just as well, because she’s going to ensure that in less than fifteen minutes she gets an urgent call and is out of here.

She’s happily on the phone to the boys when Castle wanders past, pretending he’s looking for the restroom.

* * *

 

“Drago’s is really nice, isn’t it,” Castle says to Amanda Livingstone. He’s thinking that she’s really quite stunning, and more importantly she actually wants to spend some time with him.  This might just turn out to be a really good evening.  If he plays his cards right and things go well, maybe more than just the evening.  (A little niggle at the back of his brain mutters that he’d rather be dining with Beckett, and taking her home, but he ignores that.  Anyway, she’s sitting right over there with some over-muscled saviour of the world and cute puppies, and _obviously_ having a wonderful time.  How come _he_ never gets to see her in a dress?)

“Yes,” she says, high pitched girlish voice in full deployment mode. “I love it.”

“Do you come here often?” Castle says, and winces at the appalling cliché.

“Oh, sure. But I prefer Jean-Georges.”  Castle wonders if she _meant_ to make him feel mildly inadequate or a little rude for not establishing her preferences in fine dining establishments.  She’s achieved it, deliberate or not.  He doesn’t really like the formality involved in getting dressed up (Beckett cleans up nice, his errant brain thinks, looking at her scarlet dress) and the fussy, over-elaborate food in tiny portions with pretentious descriptions.  He manages a few words on the excellence of both restaurants.

“So who was your friend?”

“Beckett? Oh, she’s not my friend.  I shadow her work at the NYPD.  Well, more than shadow, really.  I help her solve crimes.”

“Oh.” Amanda doesn’t sound wholly impressed.  Or interested.  “Why would you want to do that?”

“So that my books are accurate.”

“Oh,” she says again. “Does that really matter?  I mean, it’s all made up anyway, so why do you need to waste time following a cop around.”  More irritatingly girlish voice.  He suddenly realises that it sounds just like Meredith used to.  This is not endearing Amanda to him.  He looks across the room.  Beckett is basking in the admiration of Muscle-man.  Clearly he doesn’t remind Beckett of her exes.  Though he does bear a type-cast resemblance to Sorenson.  Muscle bound.

Castle is flabbergasted and flummoxed by Amanda’s statement – and by Beckett’s absorption in Fireman Sam. Her views on accuracy are a very serious drawback to dinner.  How can someone think that accuracy is unimportant?

“Yeah, it matters,” he says, neutrally, and changes the subject. “What do you like to do?”

“I like shopping, and the movies. There’s nothing as much fun as a good movie.”  Now this Castle can definitely get behind.  The evening improves again.  A little late-night movie watching is always an enjoyable pastime.

“What genre?” She looks a little confused.  “What sort?  Do you like art house movies?  Foreign?  Action or Sci-fi?”

“Oh, romantic. I just love a happy ending.  It’s so uplifting.  I just can’t deal with suffering.  I’m far too sensitive.”  Castle deflates again.  That’s his John Woo collection out the window, then.  So far the only thing he has in common with Amanda is that they were both on the Page Six lists.

“Do you like reading?” Surely she’ll have some favourite books?  Even if it’s not his books, they must be able to bond over books.

“Yes, sure I do. I read all the time.”  Castle’s mood, which had been tunnelling for China, takes a bounce back upward.  “I’ve always got Hello! or another magazine so I can keep up with all the latest style and gossip.”  And his mood falls back through the floor.  Over on the other side of the room Beckett seems to be having a great time.  Typical.  She gets an intelligent action hero and he gets a woman with whom he has _nothing_ in common.  Life’s just not fair.  He’s bored.  He’s never bored with Beckett.  Many things, frequently including life-threatening situations at the end of a gun – her gun – but never bored.  Beckett watches movies and reads, and can talk about it intelligently.

“So...” she starts, “what do you do apart from writing?”

“Er...well... that’s why I’m at the NYPD. So I see what they do and help.”

“But you don’t do anything else?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She sounds disappointed.  “I thought you might be a bit more...involved in the action.”  Castle is now so disillusioned that he doesn’t even try for a flirtation or salacious retort.  “I like men who can _do_ things.  That guy over there with the cop, he’s a fireman.  He was Mr July, in last year’s calendar.” _Second best to a fireman?_ Not only has the fireman got Beckett, he’s got Castle’s date too.  This is really, really not fair.

He looks up again and spots Beckett’s irritated face. The reason becomes obvious.  She’s moved away from the table to take a call.  It’s interrupting her lovely evening.  Well, it gives him an excuse.  She shouldn’t be investigating without him.  He excuses himself.  Amanda doesn’t seem at all bothered.  She is, in fact, eyeing up Beckett’s fireman.

“So you’ll run it and call me as soon as it hits, or earlier if the other lead comes off,” Beckett is saying as he wanders nonchalantly past.

* * *

Castle stops at her side. “Have you got something?” he asks, very hopefully.  Doesn’t Bimbo Three suit him?  She casts him a surreptitious look, and notices that he’s casting surreptitious looks at her cleavage.  He cleans up nice.  Very nice.  There is a brief discussion with the boys.  Unfortunately, that only lasts a few more moments and then she has to go back to her table and Brad the Brainless.

“Right. Well, I should get back to this date,” Castle says. It’s good that one of them is enjoying themselves.  Really.  Worryingly, she’s had more of a zing in the last three minutes with the two of them on the phone to the boys than she has had all evening.  Still, she’s not going to let on that it’s a washout.  Not when Castle’s clearly having so much fun.

“How's yours going?” she asks, concealing her annoyance that he’s so keen to get back to Bimbette number three.

“Great. Yours?” He smiles, apparently perfectly sincere. 

“Fantastic. Well, I'll see you.” She returns to Brad.

In the interim he has not suddenly acquired intelligence, nor conversation. It appears that he has acquired – and eaten – the remains of her appetiser, whilst considering the manifold excellencies of Castle’s date.  She is not impressed by this.  She has, in fact, rather given up trying to make any sort of a success of this so-called date, aided by the excellence – but not portion size – of her entrée and of the wine.  She’s drunk a reasonable amount of the wine, and if she weren’t waiting for the boys to call she’d down the rest in one, possibly from the bottle. 

Brad, it turns out when she gives it one last go, does not like baseball. Well, he doesn’t like the Yankees.  He’s a Mets fan.  This is really the final insulting straw.  Pursuing that line of conversation would ensure that this becomes a very _public_ crash and burn – and Castle would notice from his smug vantage of his _successful_ date and she’d have to put up with his smirking triumphalism for the next month.  Typical.  Castle gets the fun, uncomplicated date, who probably reads his books and can talk about current affairs and travel and interesting stuff, and will no doubt be only too happy to entertain him all evening and then all night, and _she_ gets a muscled up brainless bozo who wants brain-dead blondes and therefore she won’t get any _entertainment_ at all, of any sort.  Life’s just not fair.  She’s been bored all evening.  She’s never bored with Castle.  Many things, frequently including infuriated and incensed – but never bored.  Castle watches movies and reads, and certainly doesn’t support the Mets.

She mentally counts down the minutes – seconds: although each second is clearly in a Castle-esque time-dilated redshifted quantum space-time loop, since each single second takes at least an hour – and finally the boys call. She makes perfunctory apologies, and notices that Brad is back to staring at the bimbette.

* * *

Castle returns to Amanda. In the interim she has not noticeably improved, though the level of the wine has diminished markedly.  She’s not even pretending that she’s not staring at Beckett’s date.  He tries one last time to engage her attention, but before he’s thought of a conversation opener that he hasn’t already tried, he spots Beckett moving off her table with her phone, again.  He makes another excuse. Amanda really doesn’t seem to care, and as he locates Beckett with a little thrill of excitement that something _interesting_ is finally happening, he notices that Beckett’s date has started to move across the room towards Amanda.  He can just hear him as they conclude the conversation with the boys.  Beckett, at least, is going to have to leave, and if Beckett’s leaving, then Castle’s leaving too.

“Is this seat taken?” Amanda looks blissfully happy.  That’s demoralising.  Brad – how odd – also looks blissfully happy.  Beckett should be demoralised, but – hmmm.  Well, well, well.  Beckett doesn’t look bothered by being ditched at all.  Maybe it hadn’t gone as well as it looked as if it had.  Truth to tell, neither is Castle bothered.

“What should we tell them?” she wonders, without much enthusiasm or indeed sincerity. She’s fairly inclined to standing Brad up, since he’s already cuddling up to Castle’s date.  Strangely, Castle doesn’t look bothered at all.  Hmmm.  How very interesting.  Maybe his date hadn’t gone so good either.  Well, she’s not bothered.

“This is going to be awkward,” Castle mutters. Beckett doesn’t think so, and anyway, there’s a case to solve.  She makes her decision.

“They'll be OK,” she says firmly, and leads the way out.

Some considerable time later, including a rather creepily horrible encounter with a large and hairy spider (Beckett is only too glad it wasn’t crawling over her. She would have run screaming.  Not good for her bad-ass street cred.  She is quietly impressed – not that she says so – with Castle’s relative calm.) they have their villains.  They also – she and Castle, the boys got takeout, humph  - have hunger pangs.  Going back to Drago’s is not on Beckett’s list of things to do.  In fact, she could just go home and order takeout, and relax in the usual way.  Unfortunately, her mouth opens without her permission.

“I can't wait to go home and just slip into a warm bath and…” she manages to shut her mouth before she says anything more. Low blood sugar clearly removes the filters from her brain.

“I…” Castle starts, with mischief blossoming in his expression.

“Don't. Please. Don't.” The evening’s been enough of a disaster already without Castle reminding her of her inability either to find her own dates or to find someone who might have at least had a single live brain cell.

“I was just going to say, I'm starving. We left the restaurant before I had a chance to finish my entrée.” Beckett had eaten hers.  Rapidly, before Brad had eaten it for her.  All two bites of it.  She wonders what had really happened to the puppies he had allegedly rescued…

“Well, it wouldn't have mattered if you did. Portions there were tiny.”

“You know, Remy's is open all night. They've got those burgers…”  That’s just so unkind, Castle.  Those burgers are fabulous, and she is hungry, and even though she wants a bath the thought of a lovely juicy burger is… oooohhhhhhh.  Just… ooooohhhhhhhh.  And Castle can converse.  Intelligently.  She has another sudden thought.

“Ohhhh, and those _shakes_. Oh, why not.”  She looks at Castle, hopefully.  Unlike Brad, he doesn’t disappoint.  He holds her coat for her to slip into.

“Mmmm,” he says. Beckett thinks he’s referring to the shakes, but she’s not one hundred percent sure.  She’s not one hundred percent sure that _she_ was.  Somewhere along the way she’s noticed that in a slightly less obvious way Castle isn’t actually much less muscular than Brad-the-Bozo.  And he has a brain.


	2. Entree

“That’s better,” Beckett says happily, as she attacks her burger with enthusiasm. They’re comfortably plonked in a booth at Remy’s, and until the burgers and shakes had arrived conversation had been lively, wide-ranging, and absolutely not boring for a second.  Suddenly her face turns white.  “I forgot to pay!” she exclaims, horrified, and scrambles for her purse and phone.

Castle grins. “I didn’t,” he says smugly.  Then his ears colour.  “Mine or yours.”

“Huh? You paid for my date?”

“Er…yeah? Seeing as my date was drooling over your date, it seemed like a good plan.”

“And vice versa,” Beckett points out. “Mine couldn’t take his meat-headed eyes off yours.”

“Yeah. Depressing.”

“He had no conversation. I tried current affairs and movies, and he didn’t know anything.”

“Me too. _And_ she practically told me she preferred Jean-Georges.”

“Brad wanted cheesesteaks,” Beckett points out. Castle splutters milkshake droplets across the table, and wipes up with a pile of napkins.  Then he shifts a bit towards Beckett, who sounds just a little ticked off with Brad the puppy saviour.

“She didn’t think much of me following the cops around, either. Research wasn’t a good reason.”

“He liked working out and meeting his man-pals for beers. Different date every Friday.”

“She didn’t even read. She thought that reading Hello! magazine was reading a book.”

“I like reading,” Beckett notes, idly, and shifts a little closer in her turn. Castle sounds just a little ticked off by Bachelorette Number Three.  “Brad didn’t read, either.”  Castle looks shocked.

“How could neither of them like reading?”

“Don’t know,” Beckett says, in a tone which suggests that not liking reading is an equivalent social solecism to advocating baking babies. “But you know what was worst of all?”  Her indignant tone is a clue that whatever it was, she wasn’t pleased.

“What?”  

“He said I was _pretty and all,_ but he _didn’t go for brunettes_.” 

“I like brunettes,” Castle murmurs, insinuatingly, and shifts right up to her.

“And I was too serious.”

“I like serious, too.” His hand is not terribly far from hers.  “She only liked action men.  Not writers.”

“I like writers,” Beckett purrs, and wriggles close enough that their shoulders bump. She’s also close enough to be stealing Castle’s fries, to which he objects.  He taps her fingers.  She steals another one, smirks, and eats it.  He sneaks one of hers, and gets his fingers smacked.  The next time she steals one, he’s ready.  Nearly.  He just manages to catch her hand on its foray.  She tugs, gently.  Nothing happens.   A little rill wriggles up her arm from where their fingers are connected.

“I think, Beckett,” Castle drawls sleepily, “that we made one mistake with tonight’s not-double date.”

“Yeah?” Beckett murmurs, “and what might that have been?”

“I think we got the pairs wrong.”

“Do you now?” she husks, and slides her thumb lightly over his fingers. His eyes darken and the air between them heats and thickens; his hand tightens on hers and his own thumb traces the delicate filigree of bones and blue veins at her wrist.

“I do. I think we’re much better matched.  The other two seemed to suit each other, too.”

“Mmmm,” hums Beckett. Her eyes are smoky: dark and inviting.  She slowly takes a fry and inserts it into her mouth, then licks the flakes of salt sensually from her lips.  Castle lifts a wolfish eyebrow, and moves a little closer still.  His free arm drops neatly round her shoulders.

Another fry rises to her lips, and disappears. As she swallows, Castle dips his head and cleans the traces of salt from her full mouth with his own lips and tongue.  He takes his time, and then lifts off.  “I like salt on my fries,” he purrs.  The deep-pile velvety voice strokes her skin.

“Do you? I like” – she smirks wickedly – “well-hung beef.”  Castle chokes, splutters, and needs firmly patted on the back.  “This place buys from butchers who hang the meat just a little longer than normal.  Much more… flavoursome.”  She tongues her lips, delicately.

Castle recovers and _doesn’t_ leave cash on the table and haul Beckett out the door to the nearest dark alley and convenient wall.

“I like zabaglione,” he retaliates. “Smooth and creamy as it flows over the tongue, when I lick it” – there’s a pause – “off the spoon.”

“You like smooth and creamy? I like my desserts to have a little more… bite.  Stronger flavours, so that I can taste them all.”

“I like a little spice. Cinnamon and cloves in my apple pie.  Just enough to make life interesting.  A hard outer shell and then a soft filling.”  The hand on Beckett’s shoulder flexes a little, and encourages her to come closer.  “What sort of filling do you like, Beckett?”

“A lot of filling. There’s nothing worse than an inadequate amount of filling in your pie.  Texture is important, too.  The… apples… shouldn’t be soft.”

“I don’t think they sell…pie… here,” Castle murmurs. There’s a tiny undertone of growl to his voice.  “I’m sure we could find one to finish the evening.”

“Mmm? What sort of pie?”

“One we both like. Cherry pie.”  His tongue twines filthily around the descriptor. 

He drops some money on the table, holds firmly to Beckett’s hands to stop her doing the same and is growled at for his trouble. “You can treat me next time, Beckett.”  He smiles charmingly.  “Shall we go and have some pie?”

Beckett looks into Castle’s midnight-dark eyes and smiles back equally smoothly. “Why not?  I’m sure we’ll enjoy it.  We could have it at mine.” 

“What an excellent idea.” His words are soaked in seduction.

He holds her coat, again, but this time once she’s shrugged into it he slips his hand down her spine and leaves it positioned firmly in the small of her back, removes it very briefly to put his own coat on and then resets it. By the time they’re three steps out of the door into the January night the hand on her back has become a hand on her hip and a definite pressure to bring her close into him.  She’s not resisting.  There is, in fact, a sensuous sway under his hand.  The evening is looking _considerably_ better.  Good food, good conversation, and the definite implication throughout the last few minutes of heated innuendo that rather more than a peck on the cheek is potentially on offer.  He’ll definitely be offering more than a peck on the cheek.

Beckett is considering the many advantages of a man with brains and a meal with more sustenance than would be provided by the two roast sparrows she’d been served at Drago’s. Food good, conversation good, and she is rapidly confirming the impression she’d had in Remy’s that Castle is _also_ reasonably muscular.  It’s perfectly clear that a lot more than _walk her home and a brief kiss goodnight_ is on offer.  Mmm.  She was thinking in terms of rather more than a brief kiss goodnight too.  She wiggles, just a little.  The grip around her tightens pleasingly.  She’s fairly sure Castle thinks that was all his own idea.

“Let’s get a cab, Castle. It’s late and it’s a long way home.”

“Okay.” Castle achieves a cab in short order, and tucks Beckett neatly into it before following.  Then he tucks her neatly back into him, which is a far better idea.  Her coat and his jacket are a little inhibiting, but he can still put an arm around her, and she can still lean her head on his shoulder, and he can still put his other hand over hers and have them both high up on her leg, and she can –

“Where you guys wanna go? Or shall I just turn the meter on till you decide?”

Beckett gives her address. The cabbie harrumphs and moves off into the night.  Castle stretches his fingers a little bit over the smooth fabric of her dress pants and presses.

Beckett can feel the effect of Castle’s fingers on her shoulders slithering all the way down under her clothes to swirl sensually under her bra. Her breasts tighten.  She can, likewise, feel the effect of his fingers on her thigh flowing all the way down under her clothes and pooling damply between her legs.  Her inner muscles tighten too.  Even in the gloom she can see, or sense, that he’s just as affected as she.  His fingers continue to slide on her leg, and he’s trapped her hand so that she can’t reciprocate.  Yet.  He will suffer for that little attempt at control.  Oh yes.  He will definitely suffer.  It’s entirely unfair that he’s got the whole cab journey to wind her up slowly and she isn’t getting the opportunity to wind him up too.

Fortunately the traffic is light and the journey is rapid. Even so, by the time they reach Beckett’s building, the iron grip with which she normally holds her composure and ability to think is nothing more than a few flakes of rust.  She had never realised that tiny little insinuating movements carried out very slowly and not quite touching anywhere that she would previously have described as erogenous were so very, very erotic.  Castle had better pay for the cab, because she doesn’t think she could distinguish between Washington and Franklin at this point.  He appears to manage that without letting go of her.

He doesn’t let go of her on the way in, either. Nor in the elevator, in which the wickedly erotic knowledge in his eyes has to make up for the fact that Mr Kaspersky and his two miniature Schnauzers are standing between Beckett and putting all that knowledge into practice.  She has no idea what old Mr Kaspersky is saying to her, and less idea what she’s saying in return.  Though he’s looking Castle up and down with some considerable amusement, and his grey beetle brows have a definite air of mischief.  Even the Schnauzers are smirking at her.  Their brows beetle, too.  It slowly dawns on her that Mr Kaspersky is amused because Castle still has his arm round her in a distinctly possessively predatory fashion and she is not only not killing him – Castle, that is, there is as yet no reason to kill Mr Kaspersky apart from that very annoying smile – but tightly snuggled in.

She’s still being pleasantly tightly held as she unlocks her door, and as they walk through, and as she closes it. And then she isn’t.  Then, her coat is disappearing from her shoulders and being discarded on the floor with Castle’s jacket and her dress bag and then she’s being kissed.  One arm has gone back to pressing her tightly into him – mmmm – and one hand is knotted into her hair and keeping her head in place so that she can be explored and investigated and conquered and solved.  Of course, it also gives her a base to do the same. 

Well, it would have, if Castle hadn’t got the jump on her and done it first. She would fight back, but desire to _fight_ is not at all the kind of desire that’s on her mind.  She squirms against him: a wider range of movement over him, which would include some careful placement of her hands, being unavailable.  It’s not fair.  She feels so good, though, that she almost doesn’t care.  His hand has dropped over her ass and _ohhh_ he feels really, really good against her and _ohhhh_ even just kissing it’s clear that the man can really, really use his mouth. _Ohhhhh yes_.  Just the right amount of forcefulness and flirtation; the right balance between giving and taking.

Castle had spent the entire cab journey winding Beckett up in the only-just-realised hope that he could thuswise prevent himself hauling her into his lap, kissing hell out her, and then getting them both arrested for public indecency in a hackney carriage. He had _known_ that they would be great together.  When her leg comes up around his hip he realises he was wrong.  They’re _amazing_ together.  She feels so _good_ plastered over him, and how is he ever going to let go?  He peels her off him by a fraction so that he can slide one hand down between them and start getting rid of this very unnecessary clothing – and finds that there’s something already in the way and _ohhhhhh_ that’s Beckett’s elegant fingers which might be perfectly clean but are behaving in a perfectly _filthy_ fashion and it’s _not fair_ that she got there first.

She’s doing things to him that have drained the blood from his brain and the thoughts from his head but fortunately all he needs now is instinct.   His instinct is telling him to reduce her to primitive instinct too.  So instead of trying to move her hands, he starts at the top and has her soft blue t-shirt shoved up out the way in instants and _ohhhhhh_ that’s so _pretty_ and when he slips his hand over the strapless red lace her breast is soft and small and just the perfect size for him to play with.  She likes that.  She pushes into his hand and there are some soft, sexy noises coming from her mouth.  He hoists her up so that he can see if those soft, beautiful breasts taste as good as they look and _ohhhhh_ they do and her legs are wrapped around him and now would be a really, _really_ good time to find the bedroom.

There aren’t many options that might be the bedroom. Especially since he can see a bed through an open door.  He stops nuzzling and suckling – this is _not_ popular – to rebalance her in his grip and walks them both to the bed.  Mysteriously his shirt is open before they’ve got there.  How on earth did she manage that while clinging to him?  And then she scrapes over his chest and so he just has to drop her flat on her back on the bed and in that brief second while she’s readjusting he whips her t-shirt off and her dark dress pants and puts a large warm hand on her midriff so she stays put for him to admire.

“Like what you see, Castle?” Beckett purrs, and flexes under his palm so that he feels as well as sees every muscle ripple. It has some _very_ interesting effects when the ripple hits her chest.  He runs a hard, hot gaze over her. 

“Oh, yes.” A finger follows the gaze, lightly dancing across her ribs, along the valley of her cleavage.  She tries to sit up, making a grab for Castle’s shoulders and not incidentally pulling his shirt off them as she’s pushed back down. _Oooohhhhhh_.  That’s seriously pretty.  He really ought to wear tighter t-shirts rather than those button-downs.  He’s hiding his assets.  Ve-ery nice.  But far too far away.  She tries to sit up again.

“Lie back, Beckett. I wanna play too.  You can’t have it all your own way.”

“Can too.”

“More fun to share your toys.”

“How would you know what toys I’d share?” Beckett husks seductively, and produces a feline, knowing smile that contains every scrap of seduction that womankind has acquired since Lilith. Castle smirks back as brightly and wickedly as Lucifer burned as he fell.

“Why don’t we find out?”

“Why don’t we start right here?” and she sits up too fast for him to follow and yanks his pants down. _Oh. Ohhhh.  Wow_.  Assets _above_ the waist?  The hell with that.  She’ll just start stripping the assets _below_ the waist.  His boxers are gone.  It doesn’t seem to bother him at all.  She’s not surprised.  Mmmmmm. _Deeeeelicious_.   She is most offended when he mischievously tugs at her legs and she ends up flat on her back again.

Offence lasts around about two seconds, being the point Beckett realises that Castle is now positioned with his head level with her sternum, his wide chest keeping her legs apart, and – _licking his lips_?  How come he gets to lick his lips in that entirely provocative fashion and she doesn’t?  This is not fair at all.  Castle is a big bully.  He’s got no right to use all that muscle to make sure he gets first go. 

“Whatever happened to _ladies first_?” she asks crossly.

“Ladies _always_ come first, Beckett,” and while she’s still spluttering indignantly he starts placing delicate butterfly kisses on her chest and then her stomach and then he tickles his tongue into her navel and makes her wriggle and squirm and squeak.  He looks up her body intently.  “You know what happens next, don’t you?” he growls.

“You already had dinner.”

“And now I’m going to eat my dessert.” He drops his head back down to the soft skin just above the scarlet lace edge of her very brief panties, and draws a wet, dirty line across it.  She gasps.  He draws another line, over the thin, soaked satin, and grins against her as she moans and knots her hands in his hair.  “I like this dessert.  Cherry pie with cream.  My favourite.”  And another line, with his hands clamping on her hips and his shoulders holding her wide, and another, and she’s making incoherent noises and he’s barely begun, twisting in his grip and he loves this: loves her out of control even though it’s only the very first time and he hasn’t even started to learn what really, really does it for her.  She’d mentioned _toys_ …

He teases and plays and drags the satin over her and tantalises her through it and hasn’t even touched or tasted her properly yet, but it’s so much _more_ than he’d ever thought and he’s addicted, obsessed, just plain downright gone.  And in a moment, so will she be.  He stops for a second, during which she manages to call him three utterly obscene epithets for which she ought to suffer but not this time, smoothly rolls her panties off, smirks wolfishly at her from her ankles, ensures said ankles aren’t in any position to strangle him, and starts to kiss insinuatingly up the Route 66 all the way from California to Chicago. 

By the point he reaches her knee she’s insisting he hurries up. So of course he slows down and takes his time. He nibbles naughtily around the tops of her thighs, wet hot kisses soothing the tiny sting, pauses. She’s lost speech again. Finally he allows himself to stroke his tongue over the heat and moisture and touch her just where she wants him to and just where he wants to till she’s calling his name and he slips one thick finger into her and it’s enough to send her flying.


	3. Dessert

She’s still breathing hard when she finds that Castle has wriggled himself up next to her and is gently dropping kisses on her hair and not so gently holding her in against him.  He also appears to have filched her bra.  She is, in fact, stark naked in his arms.  Of course, so is he naked, which makes it fair.  She wriggles round to face him and then stretches in such a way that she slides across every inch of his body between knees and neck.  Very definitely including the key inches.  He rumbles happily, and rolls over so she’s lying on top of him.  How convenient.

She slithers to the side, which produces a less happy rumble and a plaintive request that she come back.  Plaintive is abruptly replaced by panting when she demonstrates the benefits of having at least one hand free to roam.  And stroke.  And grip.  And feather.  This time it’s stopping which produces complaints. 

Beckett’s hands are _evil_.  Gorgeous, and gorgeously talented, but _evil_.  She’s barely begun and he’s groaning and right on the edge of explosion.  He tries to retaliate and she _tuts_ at him, as if she were a maiden aunt and he caught scrumping apples from her garden.

“Stop it, Castle.  It’s my turn for dessert.”

“But I wanna.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for second helpings later.”  He rumbles again, resignedly.  Rumble turns to indrawn breath when Beckett starts her helping of dessert with a flick and twist of tongue and lips around his nipples, traces the dusting of fine hair downward… and downward… and his hands didn’t need any permission or encouragement to have attached themselves to her head and if her fingers had been utterly evil then her mouth has come straight from the school for succubi _oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck._   He can’t help thrusting up into her _mouth oh fuck her mouth_ and he is completely under her spell and calling her name and she won’t _stop_ and he can’t stop and this is all completely too much and he gives himself over to the wet heat and the soft tongue and the scrape of teeth and gives in to her without a single regret.

He manages to reach down and pull her up and cuddle her against him again, right where she fits perfectly.  He could definitely get used to this: Beckett snuggled in, naked together after a first round of spectacular sex.  Not only that, but she clearly has magical rejuvenating powers, because he’s barely regulated his breathing but he’s nearly ready for another helping of dessert.

Castle is a very nice dessert.  Even better, he cuddles her.  Beckett likes cuddles, off-duty, especially cuddles from large, muscular, naked men who know _exactly_ how to please her.  Castle, for all his annoying ways in the precinct, seems to know instinctively what pleases her (him, a little voice tells her) and he’s very, very good at it.  He can certainly have second helpings.  And thirds.  And even fourths, if he has the appetite.  Although… she drags the memory through the fog of sensations and the seductive scent of Castle around her… they were going to share… pie.  Mmmmm.  Yes.  Pie.  And she need have no doubt at all about the quantity, quality and texture of the filling.  Mmmmm.

She wiggles a little against Castle: just enough to make sure that he’s in the mood for filling – ah yes, perfect – and then drops a teasing, featherlight kiss on the light stubble on his chin.  Then another, working her way round to the vein at the side of his neck, which is pulsing in a very pleasing rhythm, and then a little nip, to see if he likes it – he does, though marks should stay well hidden if she doesn’t want some irritatingly accurate questions tomorrow – and another kiss, and –

Oh.  Well.  _That_ was a little surprising.  Instead of being nicely cuddled over him, she’s flat on her back and he’s over her and _ohhhh_ he’s waiting right where she’d like it but he’s invaded her mouth and taken no prisoners at all except her because she’s definitely trapped in the cage of his body and isn’t torture illegal because he shouldn’t be torturing her like _that_ and he’s sliding against her and no matter how she tugs and grips at his shoulders he won’t do what she wants and – hang on, that’s _cheating_ – he’s taken her hands and caught them in his and held them beside her head and this is not _fair_.

And he’s stopped kissing her, too.  This is not the plan at all.  If he carries on like that, she won’t share her toys with him.  Of course, if she does share her toys she could make sure she could do whatever she wanted.   He’d be stuck.  But then, she might get stuck.   He’d flipped her over far too easily, and then he’d have complete freedom and she… wouldn’t.  Which wouldn’t be fair.  Arousing, exciting and wholly erotic – but not fair, and she’s only playing that game if it flips both ways.  Bait… and switch.

“I do love cream with my pie, Beckett.  How fortunate that there’s plenty of it.”  It takes her a minute to get past the sheer sexuality of his tone – if he bottled that voice he’d make more money from it than from his bestsellers – to the actual words.  He wants to play that game, does he?  Right, let’s _play_.

“How fortunate that the filling is…ample.”  He breathes in.

“I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed by any insufficiency.  But maybe we should talk about the best way to enjoy it?”  She could drown in the sea of sensuality around her arising from his words.

“Slowly.  It should be savoured.  Each morsel fully appreciated as it enters.” 

He moves a little, and she squirms under him, trying to catch him in.

“Slowly?  You like deferred gratification?  Taking your time to obtain the full pleasure?”  She squirms a lot more.  If she could just shift an inch or so more… dammit.  He slides against her again and all her careful gains are lost but _ohhhhhh_ that felt good.  He’s pressing all the right buttons.

Castle can sense just how much Beckett’s enjoying this.  As much as he is, in fact.  She’s so perfectly confident of what she likes, so much _fun_ and _ohhhhhh_ she’s so hot and so slippery and he’s barely able to control himself but he has to because this is shaping up to be the best night of his life.  The way she responds to him talking dirty is unbelievable _and_ she can give it back too.

“Slow and easy.  No need to hurry.  Taking it too fast means you don’t receive the full benefit.”  She wiggles underneath him, and he lets her.

“You want the full benefit?  But slowly?” 

Castle moves very slightly and slips forward a scant inch, poised point-perfect, and then leans down to investigate her mouth again before she can protest.  She links her fingers into his in a gesture of acceptance, and gently, seductively nips his lip, soothes it with her tongue, then takes his mouth assertively and makes it very clear that the time for _talking_ is over.  Maybe it is.  But that doesn’t mean that he’ll let her stay silent.  He knows exactly what she wants.  She knows exactly what he wants.

And so he slides a little and she wiggles a little and suddenly _stopping_ , so that this goes slowly, is the _second_ hardest thing in this room.  Even that small contact is mind-blowing: he can feel her tightness and pushes a little further, and kisses her deeply, teasing with each thrust of his tongue, moving a little deeper into her in sync with his kisses, stealing her breath and the gathering sexy noises that turn into moans and she’s clenching around him, trying to pull him deeper at her pace not his.  It’s so hard not to give in, give up, just give her what she wants, which would be her giving him what he wants, but this time she will have to take and not give.  She can give later.   Next time.  There will be many next times.

He slides a little more, and a little more than that, and she’s moaning and he _thinks_ it’s his name and suddenly he’s all the way there and it is amazing and perfect and _his_.

 _Ohhhhh fuck_ that feels good and he could usefully move a little faster than that but _ohhhhh_ the slow movement is building her up and up and up and she’s twisting under him to try to take him deeper but no matter how she tries to pull him closer it’s still the same slow stretch and fill and he feels just right and it’s amazing and perfect and _hers_. 

She takes his mouth in an unmistakably possessive fashion, unlinks their fingers and wraps one hand around his neck to keep him firmly in place and wriggles the other down between them to reach the point where they join and tease them both and _that’s_ stopped this slow movement because he’s just lost it completely.  _No brakes_.  No brakes is very, very good.  And then she stops thinking at all because all that’s left is the movement and the moment and they’re in it together.

And then there’s nothing left except them, and quiet aftermath.

Beckett is an absolutely delicious dessert, Castle decides, through the sea of satisfied sensuality surrounding him.  Them.  He snuggles her in properly, pulls a handy comforter over them so that they don’t get cold while considering the next few steps, and relaxes into this wholly acceptable new pursuit of… enjoying dessert.  So to speak.

“So, Castle,” Beckett hums contentedly, “does your pie have enough flavour and spice?”  Castle arranges her a little differently, pulling a long leg up round his middle, and grins into her hair.  Beckett wants to play some more?  What a perfectly lovely idea.

“Mmmm.  Yes.  Of course, I’d need second helpings to be sure,” he drawls.  “Did yours have enough filling to be totally satisfying?”

“Mmmm.  Yes.  I’d need another portion to be absolutely certain, though.”

“Maybe we should share some more pie.”

“Maybe we should.”

Saying that might have been a small error in judgement.  She should simply have _acted_.  Because now she’s been turned round and Castle is behind her and all the actions she _might_ have taken are going to have to wait.  Again.

“It’s my turn,” she complains.

“Yes.  Your turn to have another helping.”  His fingers wiggle across her midriff.  Then one set wiggles upward and one downward.  This makes _her_ wiggle, and squeak.  Castle neither wiggles nor squeaks.  This is unfair, especially when she is wiggling against some very firm areas indeed.  He should be a little more affected by it.  If it weren’t for the heavy breathing in her ear, she’d think he was entirely unmoved.  She reaches down and behind, and is very unimpressed when Castle removes her mischievous, searching hand, puts it back in front of her, and murmurs in her ear, “Naughty, naughty.  Wait your turn.”

His upper hand is playing gently with her breasts, petting and palming and ever-so-carefully pinching hard pink tips.  She likes that, she decides, and pushes demandingly into the large, warm hand that fits over her so very nicely.  But she likes _that_ even better.  His other hand is tracing sinuous, seductive patterns down across her stomach, along her hip and thigh, back upward and he’s holding her so that moving to bring his hand where it ought to be is not quite possible without a lot more effort than she wants to make.  Why make an effort to change something that is so very, very much what – and who – she likes?  That would be silly, and Kate Beckett is not _silly_.

On the other hand, she is sneaky.

She wiggles again.  Serendipitously, this time her wiggle rearranges their relative positions just enough that she can glide down and take him in as she goes.  She would smirk, but somehow that second helping of filling has converted her smirk into rather more of an _ohhhhhh_.  Castle’s hands stop playing for an instant.  Ha!  Now the way he’s holding her against him means that he can’t take himself away. 

“Stealing extra helpings, Beckett?”

“I think I’m sharing them,” she breathes, and demonstrates.  Castle’s grip reflexively tightens on her.

“Okay, sharing is good.  I can share too.”  He nibbles delicately on her neck, and reinstates his hands where they were.  “Where was I?  Oh, yes.  Right here.”  Fingers wander a little further down, tease through soft curls, and slip through slick flesh over sensitised nerves.  She squirms helplessly under his sinful stroking.

“I like finger food,” he purrs into her ear.  “All the textures there in my hands.”

“I agree it has some advantages.  Though the correct utensils can be very helpful too, for a well-planned meal.”  He can’t stop a strangled gasp and jerk.  He didn’t mean to do that.  Is she saying what he thinks she’s saying?  And should he investigate under her bed, or just in her purse or on-duty clothing?  She might even have a uniform…  And then she twists very slightly and he forgets all his salacious speculations because she’s smooth and slippery and spectacular and his fingers move and she moves and then he moves and then she’s his or he’s hers or they’re theirs all over again.

When he recovers, which takes a little time, (he is not twenty any more, regrettably, though since that would have made Beckett ten or so it’s actually definitely not regrettable so maybe he should simply want to have back his twenty-year old self’s stamina and minimal recovery time) he finds with considerable pleasure that Beckett is still cuddled up into him and happily content.  Replete, in fact.  Just like he is.  He rearranges himself and Beckett to achieve her head on his chest and her arm over him; with his arm under her neck and the other lightly on her waist; their legs intertwined.  In a little while, a shower might be indicated.  In a little while.  This cuddled closeness is far too pleasurable to disturb.

Beckett’s eyes drift open.  She’s warm, cosy, and her pillow is moving gently.  Possibly this is because it’s not a pillow but Castle.  She peers at the clock and finds it to be the middle of the night.  It’s not time to wake up, and she really ought to have switched off her lamp.  She does that, then closes her eyes firmly, cuddles back in and starts to drift back to sleep.  Then she wakes up again, with a very wicked thought and expression.  She hasn’t had a midnight feast in years.  Castle is sleeping quietly on his back.  Perfect.  She’s totally awake now.  She switches the lamp back on.  Castle doesn’t even twitch.  How – _useful_.

She slides softly down Castle’s body, not making any…er… untoward gestures which might spoil his sleep or the surprise.  It’s rather helpful that they hadn’t quite got round to pulling the comforter wholly over them again: it means she can see what she’s doing.  She wouldn’t want to spill her food, after all.  Very uncouth.

Castle wakes up very suddenly and emits a cry of alarm which rapidly mutates into a groan of delight.  He hasn’t been _woken_ like that before.  Usually he’s been wide awake to start with.  He’s undone before he can think of anything to do or say that isn’t _Beckett Beckett oh fuck Beckett more Beckett yes Beckett!_   And then it takes him some time to be able to think at all, by which time Beckett is smirking happily from her pillows and not even cuddled up nicely.  Well, two can play at that game.  And they will.

“Stealing snacks, Beckett?  Haven’t you had enough?”

“Midnight munchies.” 

Castle gives her a wolfish expression.  “Really?  You sure do take a lot of feeding.  How fortunate that I have the resources to – hmm – _satisfy_ you.  Fill you up.”

“Fill me up?  That’s good to know.  I’m a little hungry right now.”

It’s all he needs.  He’s devouring her mouth in an eye-blink, holding her to him and thrusting his thigh between hers to let her find friction on the hard muscle and skin; she rubs against him and mewls as he presses her into the pillows and sandwiches her between his re-invigorated body and the sheets and slides firmly home into paradise.  When he’s sure she’s been totally filled up, he spends some focused time ensuring that this time she’s so wholly satisfied that she can’t do anything other than react and make incoherently desperate noises of need and want and encouragement and wholesale delight, and then the world goes white and there’s nothing left but limp Beckett under him.

Castle is large, and heavy, despite his excellently formed musculature, and he is squashing her.  She squeaks a little, and tries to push him off so she can breathe.  Fortunately, he takes the hint and rolls over, taking her with him and kissing her happily as he does.

“You still hungry, Beckett?”

“No,” she yawns, snuggling into his neck.  “Not now.”

“I am,” Castle purrs, dangerously softly.  “You got more than me.  That’s not fair.” 

Beckett smiles sleepily at him.  “I can’t …eat… any more.”  Castle smiles.  Hungrily.

“I can.  You don’t need to.”  She hums assentingly, and lets him have his way.

He nestles her into the pillows and kisses his way down that gorgeous, lax, cherry-and-sex scented body, making sure to taste her breasts, nibble softly on her nipples: just enough to tease her; allows his fingers to drift lower and heat her up slowly; follows with his mouth and opens her wide so that he can taste and lick and tease and nibble and eat his fill until she cries out his name and comes against him.

When he curls her back into him she’s boneless and so close to asleep that there’s nothing to do but sleep too, wrapped together as close as the lovers they’ve now, finally, become.

* * *

“Breakfast time, Beckett,” Castle carols into her barely-awakened ear.

“Urrgh.  Coffee,” she whines.  Mornings are not for carolling.  Mornings are for surviving.

“No, no, no.  You have to have breakfast.”

“Ugh.  Coffee.”  She pauses.  It occurs slowly to her sleep-soaked brain that Castle isn’t exactly in the kitchen.  “What’s for breakfast?”

“I thought we could share cherry pie.”

“I’ve got the cream.”

_**Fin.** _


End file.
